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Baelor smiles at the circle of braziers. They aren’t traditional, but when he’d mentioned to Maekar he was thinking of ways to try and invoke the Fourteen for the wedding, his brother had suggested fourteen braziers evenly spaced around the dragon statue in the garden. It creates a circle, a space he can't help but think of as belonging to the Valyrian Gods, the way the godswood is for the Old Gods, and the Sept for the New.
Now, Maekar is grumbling as he stands beside the dragon statue, in the centre of the burning braziers. The Valyrian outfits and other traditional items of the ceremony had been destroyed by his namesake, Baelor the Blessed, long ago. Still some requirements remained, one of them being someone to lead the ceremony, and Baelor has, of course, chosen his baby brother for the task. Partially, because it honours the place Baelor sees Maekar having in his life, but he also knows his brother will fucking hate it, and it’s just his right as the eldest to annoy his brother any chance he gets.
Baelor steps easily into the circle created by the braziers, turning to wait for Dunk. His soulmate has decided he is healed enough from the Trial for them to be wed. It has only been two and a half months since the Trial, still Dunk has episodes, but he was adamant he was ready when Baelor had offered once more.
Dunk hesitates at the edge of the circle, before Egg and Lyonel nudge him forward. They do not need witnesses for this, but still, they have them. Rowan, Raymun, Lyonel, Berena Stark, and Maekar’s lovely, little delights. Young Aemon had even offered his own learnings on the traditions of Old Valyria when he’d learned what Baelor was planning upon his arrival from the Citadel.
Dunk hunches his shoulders slightly, as he steps forward to Baelor’s side. Baelor reaches for him, grabbing his hands and squeezing tight.
“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, aware that Maekar might be able to hear them, but it’s the best he can do at the moment.
“Nothing, just…” Dunk sighs. “I’m a hedge knight.” Dunk won't even meet his gaze, head bowed. Baelor sighs.
“Aye, you are. You were. You will be,” he agrees, releasing Dunk’s left hand, so he can reach up and caress his face, guiding Dunk to meet his eyes. “We do not have to do this if you don’t want it. It won’t change how I feel for you, or how you feel for me. But by law, it will make you mine. My consort. My husband. My twin flame. But you are already mine. My soulmate, my knight, my good man. I need no more than that,” he promises, his thumb stroking over Dunk's cheek. Dunk's eyes flicker over his face, searching. For what, Baelor isn't sure, but he seems to find what he's looking for as he gives a jerky nod.
“Yours,” Dunk murmurs, his shoulders dropping, some of the tension easing from him. “Alright. Alright, let's do this,” he says. Baelor grins and then turns to Maekar, to check his brother is ready. Maekar nods, the goblet that will mingle their blood held tight in his hands.
Baelor unsheathes the dragonglass knife Berena Stark had given him. He looks at it for a long moment, before he hands it to Dunk. They had agreed that Baelor would be fire, and Dunk would be blood. That meant Baelor would take the first cut, though really, Dunk would take both of them.
Dunk holds the knife in his hands, before he takes a calming breath and steps forward. Baelor forces himself to stay still as the cool blade touches his lower lip. He startles as he feels pain and then blood, warmth as it trails down into his beard. There are startled cries from everywhere, and Baelor licks at the blood on his lip even as he meets Dunk’s wide, terrified eyes. The dragonglass knife shaking in his hand.
“It’s alright,” Baelor says, remembering what the Stranger had said to him, weeks ago now. That there would be times the bargain would not hold. He remembers how distantly the Stranger sounds when he speaks with him whenever he visits the godswood, the realm of the Old Gods. Remembers his assurance when Baelor had thought of it, that the Trial had been the realm of the Seven and that’s why the Stranger got to claim them. This, here, now, is the domain of the Fourteen Flames. “It’s only for this,” he says, to reassure Dunk and everyone else. The Fourteen may not hold as much sway over his house, over any in Westeros anymore, but Baelor and Maekar made this space for them, knowing full well it would be for them. So, of course, they reign supreme here, even over the Stranger and his claim.
“Are you sure?” Dunk ask. Baelor smiles, resisting the urge to hiss at the pain of his cut lip as he does so. It's a good pain, for all that it's catching him off guard. He never thought he'd miss being able to feel pain, but he does. If only because it means only he is feeling it, not Dunk.
“Yes.”
“Alright,” Dunk says, breathing deep as he reaches forward, dragging a finger through the blood dribbling down Baelor’s chin into his beard. Dunk reaches up and draws the Valyrian glyph for fire above Baelor’s brow, then he turns the knife and holds it out to Baelor, hilt first. Baelor hums, resisting the urge to lick at his cut lip again as he takes the knife. The blood on his brow is cooling, even as he feels some of it dripping down the bridge of his nose.
Dunk doesn’t flinch as Baelor cuts the blade over his lip, blood welling quick and easily and flowing down his chin. Baelor is quick to drag his fingers through the blood, before he draws the glyph for blood on Dunk’s brow. The glyph does not hold its shape, for the blood runs freely as it wishes, but it is the intent that matters, he had read, so Baelor doesn’t concern himself with it. Instead, he holds out his palm, breathes in deep and then slices his palm open.
The pain is sharp and fast. It is an odd sensation when he hasn’t felt it for a while. He almost feels like it hurts far more than it should. But he doesn’t let himself dwell on it as he holds the knife out to Dunk. His lover is quick and careful with slicing his own palm, then they join their hands together as Maekar steps forward with the ribbons that will bind their cut hands together. Maker holds the goblet beneath their bound hands, their blood dribbling down into the goblet.
“Hen lantoti ānogar, va sȳndroti vāedroma,” Maekar starts to intone, as their blood mingles. After waiting a little while, Maekar offers the goblet to Baelor, before taking the knife from Dunk. “Mēro perzot gīhoti, elēdroma iārza sīr,” Maekar says, when Baelor brings the goblet to his bloodied lips and drinks. He’s… never going to take up a future drinking blood, he decides, as the copper taste settles on his tongue and he feels a little queasy. The texture is very... goopy and unpleasant as the blood has cooled in the time it took to collect. Still, he drinks roughly half of the contents of the goblet, before passing it over to Dunk. “Izulī ampā perzī, prūmī lanti sēteksi,” Maekar says, as Dunk takes his own sip of the blood. Baelor smiles, silently laughing at the distaste on his lover’s face after he’s downed his half, as the ceremony demands. It's unpleasant, but is only necessary this once.
“Hen jenȳ māzīlarion, qēlossa ozūndesi,” Maekar says, as he takes the goblet from Dunk and steps back and away from them. Baelor reaches out with his free hand to caress Dunk’s face, Dunk mirroring him as they draw closer. “Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo, rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi.” The moment Maekar stops speaking Baelor smashes his and Dunk’s lips together, uncaring of the blood smearing or the pain of the cuts he can feel burning their presence. Around them, the fourteen braziers burst high with life and Baelor hears dragons roaring in his ears.
He and Dunk are one. They are bound now. Blood of two joined as one. Two flames burning together, forever.
The pain does not fade when they step outside the circle, after receiving the well-wishes of their family and friends. The blood does not simply vanish as if it had never been. Baelor is happy, and so relieved by this. It means these might be scars that he’s allowed to keep. Confirmation of his marriage. He smiles, uncaring that in doing so he’s reopened the cut that had only just sealed, sending a new trail of blood dripping down his chin.
“Come on, we’re for Yormwell,” Dunk says, squeezing their still bound hands. It hurts! It still hurts! “He’s going to lecture us about blood and stupidity and infection… again.”
“Don’t care,” Baelor answers, unable to stop beaming. Not resisting at all as Dunk pulls him along through the hallways. The servants stop to stare at them, wide eyed, but they say nothing and that’s just as well. Though Baelor is sure they must look a sight. He doesn't care though. Not even if the whole realm learns what they've done and judges them for their heresy.
“What did the words mean? I think you said before that you’d tell me, but we kept getting distracted before you ever got there,” Dunk says, Baelor blinks, then he laughs. Yes, they had gotten very distracted before Baelor could explain.
“Blood of two joined as one. Ghostly flame and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires. A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness. The vow spoken through time, of darkness and light,” Baelor answers, sounding so very smug even to his own ears. But who can blame him? Dunk is his twin soul. They are blood of two joined as one. Two hearts as embers forged.
“Seems very… romantic,” Dunk says, a flush forming on his cheeks. Baelor laughs, again, his heart soaring.
“Well, it was a wedding, love. I’d hope for a little romance.”
“Fair enough. It’s-“ but whatever it is, Baelor doesn’t get to learn as Yormwell appears in front of them, incensed at the sight of their blood. They both flush and follow after him into his office, prepared for the lecture from the seven hells.
But Baelor has no regrets, a glance at his husband shows Dunk has none either.
In the morning, Lyonel interrupts their isolation by having Ser Willem pass Baelor a small scrap of parchment, and the command to burn it after reading it.
All it says is the phrase ‘valar morghulis’. Baelor stares at the letter for a long moment, before he realises what it means and he hastily throws it into the fire.
Aerion, his nephew, the want-to-be Maegor, the bane of their House, is dead. Baelor finds he has no tears to cry.
No one mourns the wicked. The good man scorns the wicked. At least, that's what they say.
Why, then, does he not feel like a good man?
He sighs and climbs back into bed, snuggling against his still slumbering husband. His palm and his lip sting with a blessed pain and he lets it ground him in the here and now. There will be time later to question, to mourn if he remembers enough of the boy Aerion had once been to do so. Time enough later to feel guilt for conspiring to kill one of Maekar's delights.
For now... for now he is a happily wed man with his husband in his bed. That is all that he needs and more.